


Gentle

by miarr



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miarr/pseuds/miarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They possess the empire, one step at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lies_d](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lies_d/gifts).



They possess the empire, one step at a time. First, they summon every significant business-owner and dealer and bent cop to a meeting, one-on-one. They all shake hands and sit down and then Kirill says, _This is how it’s gonna be from now on: we are the new bosses. Semyon is gone, so starting today you come to us, yeah?_ In the beginning his voice quavers, faltering on ‘Semyon’, but after the first couple of times he got over it and now he says it without blinking, smooth as you like.

Nikolai sits next to Kirill and smokes. He keeps one hand discreetly at the small of Kirill’s back, barely touching, and with the other he taps ash onto the floor. At the end of the meeting he flicks aside the cigarette, leans forward and says, _We are vory v zakone. Remember this. Even in London, you don’t escape us—nobody does._

Yes, they all say. Yes, yes, of course. Of course. You’re the new bosses. Long live the kings.

Kirill walks out of the last meeting happy and grinning, an arm slung around Nikolai’s shoulders. _We did it,_ he says, exuberant. _We kept them all. See how they were scared? ‘Oh mama—we’ll do anything!’ Listen to me, Kolya; fear is the best ruler._

Nikolai ruffles Kirill’s hair and traces a thumb softly down the side of his neck, hand tucked inside the collar of his jacket. He is unsurprised when Kirill unconsciously leans into the touch. _Oh, I don’t know,_ he says. _Sometimes gentle is better._

 

*

 

The first skirmish crops up no more than two weeks after their ascent. Nikolai is unsurprised. Sooner or later someone was bound to test Semyon's replacements, check whether the son had inherited the father's iron fist. It was only a matter of time.

The victim is one of their smaller dealers, a flower-shop owner in north London, who gets roughed up badly and his shop ransacked: shattered pottery everywhere and five stitches in his scalp, smashed windows and a broken arm.

_Fuckers,_ Kirill snarls when he sees the damage. _Fucking bastards, I’ll kill them. On our turf! Do they think we will roll over quietly? I’ll kill them with my own hands._

_Da, Kirill._ Nikolai walks slowly through the shop, moving past big plastic leaves and a rhododendron tree leaning crooked against a wall, soil spilling out from the remains of its flowerpot. Kirill is in the next aisle over, scowling, framed by a cluster of bougainvillea. His anger is incongruous with the cheerful orange blossoms.

_Who do you think did it?_ Kirill leans in close over the rows of flowers, as though proximity and the big rosebush to their left will prevent their being overheard. Nikolai shoots him an inscrutable look and keeps walking. _What? Kolya!_

_Call the insurance company, yes?_ Nikolai tells the shop manager, who nods timidly, both eyes haloed dark with bruises. He’s an old Galician Jew, in his mid-sixties and surviving his wife, with one daughter studying medicine in Romania, one son married in Leeds. He’s been obedient to a fault, never missing payments or striking deals behind their backs, which is probably why he was chosen: one of their best and most loyal subjects. A blatant call to arms.

_We will find them,_ Nikolai assures him, simple and determined, like he’s stating a fact. _And they will pay. Not with money, but they will pay—we will see to it._ He shakes the man’s good hand firmly. _Apologies about the mess. Get well soon._

They walk out just as the owner gets a call from his daughter. Sarah? Yes, I’m fine—yes—they wrecked the shop, but don’t worry, everything is taken care of. I have some good friends who will help me. They’re making sure it won’t happen again.

_Why didn’t you answer me?_ Kirill demands as they get in the car (both in the backseat—they got a new driver, someone of Nikolai’s choosing, someone he said was trustworthy). _I asked you a question._

Nikolai brushes his knuckles against the line of Kirill’s jaw and palms the back of his neck, the soft hair there, not bothering to ask permission. _Da, Kirill,_ he says. _You did. And my answer is, don’t talk business in front of customers. It is bad form._

_Bastard,_ Kirill says. _You think you know everything?_ But Nikolai is smiling at him, their knees bumping together in the backseat, and after a moment Kirill thaws out, relenting by degrees until he has a smile to match Nikolai’s. He slings one arm around Nikolai’s shoulders, punching his arm. _I gotta teach you manners, Kolya. Already you are forgetting your place._

_My place is here, brother,_ Nikolai says simply. _With you._ And Kirill’s smile is bright enough to light up the entire car, his earlier anger dissipated like fog on a hot day.

 

*

 

_Now._ Kirill scowls. _Who did it?_

_It was Chechen mafia._ Nikolai tosses away his cigarette stub like he’s throwing a projectile; it hits the floor and sizzles out, noiseless. _We killed two of their men. Understandably, they are not happy._

_They started it!_ As though kindergarten logic gives them the moral high ground. Kirill seethes, indignant. He doesn't ask how Nikolai knows or how he found out – his trust is as immediate as it is total. He simply accepts. _They should know better than to mess with us. And if Papa hadn’t set you up—_

_What Semyon did belongs to past, brother._ Nikolai takes a long drag from a new cigarette, blows it out in a languid, drawn-out exhalation. The smoke escapes into the air like a caravan of fugitives, crossing the borders of his lips in single file, one tendril ushering another.

(It seems like he is always smoking these days—perhaps for something to do with his mouth, his hands, the inner pockets of his jacket, where he carries the too-heavy weight of a gun. If there is anyone Nikolai would rather hurt, it is himself. This is not as much of a secret as he’d like it to be.)

Kirill huffs a little, stopping his pacing so he can throw himself into one of the big padded chairs which are placed around the room. He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them, then frowns. All around them the restaurant is dark, illuminated only by a cluster of dim table lamps. Nikolai’s lighter flares brightly as he takes out his newest cigarette, but he snaps it shut after a couple of seconds. There is quiet everywhere.

_If it’s Chechen brothers_ , Kirill says at length, his expression unexpectedly serious, _we gotta take them out. We gotta act fast, or they’ll think we're weak._

Nikolai arches an eyebrow, a flash of something on his face, almost like surprise—then he's nodding assent, stoic. _That is true._ He puts the cigarette to his lips. _You are right, Kirill. I was thinking same thing._

Kirill looks pleased and shrugs, not bothering with modesty. _I am natural at this. When you grow up like me, vor from birth, you are good whether you want it or not_. He reaches out, not even a full arm’s length, and snatches up a nearby bottle of vodka easily, taking a swig. Ever since he gained control of the restaurant there are always bottles everywhere, half-full or empty: on tables and near the bread oven and in the lavatory, the newest bane of the cleaning staff. Nikolai has appointed someone to have them collected and put away, and especially kept far from the girls. Kirill is beloved by children, but he is no role model.

Not that Nikolai is himself, to any extent. He appointed someone to watch over the girls as well; to collect them every morning and tuck them away every night, to make sure they are clean and comfortable and practice their violin. Semyon had been very involved in their upbringing, only his absence showing just how much, and it is not an easy hole to fill. They try to take it over, just as they are taking over everything else, one step at a time.

_Yes_ , Nikolai says. He taps ash out of his cigarette; short, brisk touches. Decisive. _Monday, we will speak to the Turks. They will tell us everything we need to know._

One step at a time. Eventually, they will take over everything.

 

*

 

At first the Turks propose to meet them in a sauna again, because that's where the Turks always propose to meet, and Kirill hangs up in their face by throwing the phone against a wall. Nikolai is impassive, but the lines of his mouth are thin and sharp, pressed together as if his jaw is a machine ratcheted too tightly. He still has wounds from his fight in the bathhouse, some not even scarred over yet. The gash on his cheek is small but livid.

They don’t bother calling back. A day passes, and when the Turks contact them again, it’s with an offer to meet them on their turf, inside the Trans-Siberian Restaurant, as their humble guests.

Kirill spits to the side, disgusted. _I’m not gonna let them put a foot in this place. It’s too good for these bastards, after what they did to you. Like inviting rats inside the house—fucking disgrace._

_It is business,_ Nikolai says in response, as though the rest is self-explanatory. _It will give good impression, make them open to talking. We do what is good for business, Kirill. What is good for business is good for us._

_I say what is good for us!_ Kirill snaps. _That's my fucking decision to make. And some things you don't do, even if they are good for business._ He leers, derisive. _If it will be good for business for you to suck my cock, will you get on your fucking knees, Kolya?_

He tries to say it jokingly, but the forced casualness is his undoing; it comes out all wrong. He stops.

Nikolai takes a slow drag from the stump of his cigarette, fingers close to his lips. He looks at Kirill from beneath half-lidded eyes, like a great cat, and lets the silence stretch. His gaze is almost sleepy, except that his eyes are sharp and narrow in the grey afternoon light; face sharp and narrow also, a weathered statue’s face, the stone whittled down by years of wind and rain into something lined and secretive.

The corners of his lips are turned down slightly; it imbues him with a wry look and makes his mouth more expressive, almost soft. Kirill stares, and doesn’t look away, even as the seconds gather like sand in an hourglass.

After a long moment Nikolai exhales the smoke in a quiet unbroken breath and stubs out the cigarette, the last of his third packet for the day. _Da, Kirill_ , he says patiently, imperturbable. Kirill blinks, incredulous. _Some things you don't do, even if they are good for business. If you are so against rats, we will meet them outside of the restaurant, in the hangar by the river. So they will not piss on carpet._

Kirill looks like he doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Nikolai claps him on the shoulder briefly and rises to fetch another bottle, fingers brushing lightly along the seam of Kirill’s loose shirt collar as he goes. Casual. He doesn’t look back as he enters the kitchen.

After a moment Kirill lets out a shuddering breath. He runs a hand through his hair angrily; shoves at the table, rocking it and wobbling the porcelain vase. From behind the kitchen door, Nikolai listens, noiseless. He takes his time in the cellar, and when he returns Kirill is already back to normal, loud and brash, planning to personally slit the neck of every fucking Turk in the city.

 

*

 

(Once, before he got the stars painted onto his skin, Nikolai used to wonder if it would ever end. He would look up at the sky, a dull British grey, nothing like the fierce beauty of storm-clouds over his motherland, and ache for something real. Not this – trapped in a borrowed country under a borrowed name, living on borrowed time.

He used to wonder how far he'd go. Where he'd draw the line. How much time it would take the _vor_ bleed into him, like a taint of oil in water, until contamination was inevitable. Perhaps it had already happened.

After he got the stars, four keys to the gates of hell branded on his knees and clavicles, Nikolai stopped wondering. It was a futile endeavour. There was no climbing back from where he was, so the only way to go was downwards. Who cared how far?)

 

*

 

The meeting demands preparations. The hangar, a small warehouse officially used for private storage, offers three primary advantages: discretion, security, and proximity to the docks in case things get out of hand and someone must be disposed of. It's not a place policemen take to visiting in their usual circuit – the _vor_ y made sure of that.

Nikolai calculates every last detail, from the route of the drive to their rendezvous point (roundabout, starting from the restaurant but circling back through traffic from a different direction) to the number of bullets in his two spare magazines (seventeen each, temporarily displacing the cigarettes). Like a conductor, he orchestrates the setup, minimising the surprises in order to minimise the risks. You can never be too careful with someone who's crossed you once.

Kirill, on the other hand, feels the odds against their Turkish associates are naturally in his favour. He's confident, even anticipating the confrontation, like a hound scenting blood. Nikolai registers the bright eyes, the tap-tapping fingers, as their driver pulls into the parking lot.

_I want that bastard Azim to look at my face,_ Kirill says, low and conspiratorial. _So he can see the man he tried to have killed. Maybe I'll kill him instead. Bam! Straight between the eyes._

_He is working for us now,_ Nikolai says. _Don't put blame on him for what your father did._ But his eyes are cold as he says it, and there is no mercy in them.

The Turks arrive five minutes after they do. Azim and another younger man in a suit. Dressed warmly, unseasonably so, but even the layers can't completely hide the concealed bulge of firearms. Their expressions are a grim acknowledgment that they've got reason to worry.

_Good evening,_ Nikolai begins, tone mild. _We can do this simple, or we can do this difficult._ He pauses. _You know what doing things the difficult way leads to, Azim. To save time, let's go with simple this time._

Azim's eyes narrow, but he doesn't rise to the bait. The weight of loss still burdens him, discernible like a physical thing. They didn't attend Ekram's funeral, held the day after the football match; in fact the next time they met was during the fealty rounds following Semyon's displacement, where Azim had done his best in an attempt to win their favour.

It's not simply a matter of politics, though. Nikolai's job is to know things about people, and he knows Azim visits his nephew's grave almost every day. Knows he spends hours staring at the headstone in silence. Azim's face is now lined like an old stone wall that's been eaten away by rivulets of grief. His voice is heavy and he doesn't bother with preliminaries. _What do you want from me?_

_Names, details, information,_ Kirill shoots back. _Everything you know about those Chechen fuckers. You know – the ones you led in to kill me._

Azim flinches a little, reflexive. _I don't have anything. They did not tell me names. Just said to bring you to the bathhouse and then leave. And afterwards, after Semyon... they cut me off. I only work with Turkish imports now. Please. I did not know, I swear it._

_Swear on your nephew's life?_ Kirill sneers, and Azim's fists clench, white-knuckled. His voice is tight with anger when he replies.

_Must you throw salt on an old man's wounds?_

_Have a little respect or I'll blow your face off,_ Kirill snaps.

The man flanking Azim shifts uneasily. His hand slowly reaches inside the folds of his coat, as though unsure. Kirill notices, because he starts reaching for his gun, except he's not slow and cautious, he's eager, bloodthirsty even—

_Stop._ Everybody freezes. _Azim, listen. What you did with Semyon is hard to forgive. Now, you must prove that you are with us. So prove it. Give us a name._

Azim looks desperate. _I don't know. I don't know. The men I talked to were the men you killed. All I know is, we met in a little shop, Ransome's Dock, in Battersea. That is all. Now I have nothing to do with them. Please._ He looks between them, imploring.

_Tell us more about this shop,_ Nikolai prompts.

_It's off the west side of Battersea Park. Near the river. A small place, a restaurant. We sat and drank and they told me what they needed. Semyon made me do it. I swear._ He looked like he was about to continue the litany, but Nikolai cut in.

_Okay, Azim. You have said enough. Go now._ Azim looks momentarily stunned, then beats a hasty retreat along with his escort. The pair of them don't even bother looking back. Nikolai and Kirill are left in the empty warehouse, dockside fluorescents throwing huge shadows on the walls.

_Why did you send them away?_ Kirill shoots him a look, annoyed. _Maybe we could have gotten some more details. A gun to the head is useful for the memory._

_We have what we came for,_ Nikolai says sharply. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, takes a drag – then after a long moment breathes out, more composed.

Kirill takes a step, two, three, until he's squarely in Nikolai's personal space. His voice turns into a low whisper. _I still want to kill him. For what he did._

_I know._ Nikolai's voice is low and hoarse.  His hand comes up and cups the back of Kirill's neck, fingers brushing his hair, and Kirill relaxes noticeably. _Don't worry. There is time for everything._

Kirill takes a deep breath – smoke and damp riverside air – and leans into the touch. _He's a dead man walking._ His voice hardens. _A bullet at you is a bullet at me. They need to realise that, Kolya. Nobody hurts us. Nobody._

Nikolai doesn't reply, just keeps his hand on Kirill's nape. Gentle. They stand there for long minutes, silently, with the lap of the waves far-off in the darkness.

 

*

 

Gathering information about the venue is easier than expected. The Chechens clearly weren't prepared for them to reach so far in, to probe the soft underbelly of home-grown setups and backdoor businesses. Probably more worried about the bigger fish, the imports or the sex trafficking. But sometimes small is what you need when you're looking for chinks in the armour.

_It's a meth lab,_ Nikolai explains to Kirill. His informants are thorough, credible, and above all covert. Kirill, as usual, is only too happy to let him sort out the technical details. _The owner is local, but they supply as far out as the north suburbs. So it is profitable._ He takes a drag of his cigarette, leans back in the chair. The restaurant is empty this time of night, though that evening's party decorations still litter the room. _They keep it in the back room, behind the kitchen. It has been happening for last twelve, fourteen months._

_No wonder people like to come eat there, huh?_ Kirill laughs. His feet are up in Nikolai's lap, ankles crossed. He is in a good mood today, or at least three-quarters a vodka bottle's worth of good mood. The restaurant staff are constantly challenged by his new and inventive hiding places for alcohol. Nikolai had made some personnel changes in the business, people he said were highly recommended, but even they have a hard time keeping up. _These sons of pigs. We should blow the place up and make it look like an accident. Teach them to mess with us._

_Da, we could do that,_ Nikolai says. His eyes are fixed on the far wall, where the outlines of a plan that only he can see are coming together. Nikolai is a black box: the mechanisms of his mind are covert, undisclosed by any outwards signs. _Or we could do something else._

_Like what?_ Kirill is eyeing Nikolai's mouth with something approaching fascination, a lean hunger, as though eager for his next words. _Go on, Kolya. Surprise me._

Nikolai glances at him, lips twitching to a smile. _You don't like surprises._

_I fucking love surprises._ Kirill is still staring at Nikolai's mouth. Nikolai wets his lips, just so, and Kirill swallows hard. He takes a swig of the vodka. _Fucking Chechens._

_You know what?_ Nikolai breathes out another lazy column of smoke, ghostly in the darkened room. _If you are so big on surprises, it will be a surprise. I will take care of it._ The look on Kirill's face says he's about to protest, so Nikolai reaches out and places a gentle finger on Kirill's lips. _Let me do this thing. For you._

The hitch in Kirill's breath registers as a gust of warm breath against his skin. Their eyes lock. After a long moment of silence, Kirill finally says: _Don't jump above your head, Kolya._

Nikolai smiles, all teeth.

_Don't worry yourself. I have my ways._

 

*

 

Nobody knows exactly what twist of fortune led the police to discover the Battersea meth lab, successfully concealed for over a year by the bustling front of the Ransome's Dock Restaurant & Grill. The consensus was that all those in the know were in no position to report anything, while the proximity to the kitchen helped fool any uninvolved locals. It had already made a name for itself in the industry as a solid underground supplier, and demand for goods was growing at a steady pace.

An unidentified explosion in the adjacent building provided the immediate trigger, drawing police forces to the area, though which circumstances led them to the lab next door is unclear. Rumour has it there were sniffer dogs that picked up on the chemical smell, or perhaps the explosion, having turned out to be a dud, led them to search the area. How they knew to head straight for the lab within seconds, though, before any of its inhabitants got the chance to evacuate, remains a mystery. It's almost as if they _knew_.

The bust is wildly successful. Key figures are arrested, equipment is confiscated, the evening news show a stern-faced man from the National Crime Agency making statements about the war on drugs. Quick thinking and quicker action, he says, are what made the operation today possible. I commend every one the officers responsible.

As happens in these cases, the incident left several street dealers without a point of contact and therefore seeking a replacement source. It was the work of a moment to connect them to a new supplier, one of their own people, and capitalise on the Chechen's misfortune. That was a nice finishing touch.

Of course, nothing in the proceedings could suggest their involvement – not explicitly, at least. It was more than mere coincidence, though, that the lab's losses turned entirely into their profits. For those paying attention the message came across loud and clear: Do not cross us. You will lose.

Their empire is not going to fall apart that easily.

 

*

 

(He'd thought long and hard about whether to go for it or not. It was a risky move, linking himself in any way to the police. But at the end of the day it's an elegant solution, one that doesn't risk any of their own people, and the benefits outweigh the costs.

He doesn't meet with Yuri, his operator, anymore, not face-to-face. It's too dangerous. His people arrange matters, though, and the execution is flawless. Reports from the Russian desk reach him eventually – the Chechens are daunted, licking their wounds, and will think twice about engaging them again.

Semyon would have found out, he's certain, and would have killed him immediately. Semyon isn't around anymore, though. There's only Kirill now. He can deal with that.)

 

*

 

_Budem zdorovy!_ Kirill downs another shot and immediately raises his glass, wavering only a little. The girl with platinum-blonde hair fills it again, precariously balanced on a pair of heels. She's wearing a short, tight dress, slit at the hip with a low cleavage – more shown than covered. Kirill sloshes some of the vodka on her tits, then leans down to lick it off. He is extremely drunk. _Kolya! Come celebrate with me. Us. Me. Come on._

_I am celebrating._ Nikolai exhales a slow, hazy whisper of smoke from his cigarette. Beside him is a demure brunette, and beside her, an overflowing ashtray. They'd closed down Semyon's so-called stables almost immediately after taking over, Nikolai with grim-faced determination and Kirill with something approaching relief. Still, girls were not hard to come by, and when Kirill had said he wanted to celebrate, Nikolai simply ordered in.

They're in the large salon above the Trans-Siberian, meant for hosting more intimate ensembles. The other inhabitants of the house were either given the evening off or sent away to other relatives. They've requested only two girls, and their man knows to send them the best of the best: young and smooth-skinned, clean inside and out, no needle marks or junkie bruises. _Premiya._

_You don't look like party to me,_ Kirill slurs. His grammar always deteriorates when he's drunk.

Nikolai tips his head back languidly against the sofa. The half-lights of the room are drowned in the hollows of his cheeks, his eyes, the sleek lines of his throat, all of which are in shadow. His expression is unreadable as he raises a glass. _To us._

_To us!_ Kirill is clearly too inebriated to care. Another shot goes down, and he slaps a rough hand on the blonde's buttocks. _To us and to the empire._ He eyes Nikolai with what he probably thinks is a crafty look. _How did you do it?_ _How did you arrange for policia on those Chechen sons of bitches?_

Kirill will never learn not to mix business and pleasure. Perhaps that is why he does a poor job of both. _I told you I would take care of things,_ Nikolai says. _Surprise._

_To surprises!_ Kirill knocks back another shot, doesn't even notice that Nikolai isn't keeping up with him. _To prostitutki!_ He clumsily grabs at the blonde's dress, trying to pull it off. Fabric tears. _It's been too long since I fucked. Come on._

It takes no small amount of manoeuvring to get them all to the bedroom. Kirill collapses on the bed, dragging down his conquest, while Nikolai and his own abscond to a duvet. The girls are good at what they do, though their faces are blank as fresh snow, with smiles that never reach their eyes. It is a mystery what on this earth could make them smile for real again. Perhaps nothing.

The brunette has features like a delicate _matryoshka_ doll, small pert breasts and rounded hips. She's pliant and soft and yielding, but when Nikolai puts a hand on her flank he can feel the trembling. She makes a small, high sound when she lowers herself onto him, tight and hot, though aside from that is remarkably quiet. He keeps watch out of the corner of his eye on the other side of the room, glancing beyond the curve of her shoulder.

He's getting closer, the slow warmth of orgasm curling in his belly and warming his body, when the sound of a flesh hitting flesh rings out. They stop.

_Suka blet!_ Kirill is towering over the blonde, who's tumbled to the floor, cringing away from another slap. Her hands come away from her mouth bloodied. _This stupid bitch doesn't know how to suck dick. What's wrong with you, cow?_ He moves to strike her again.

Nikolai pushes the brunette off him and moves to Kirill. He grabs his raised hand just as it starts descending for another blow. _Kirill. Stop this._

_Don't tell me— this bitch—_ Kirill is nearly incoherent with rage and, Nikolai suddenly notices, on the verge of tears. His penis isn't even a little hard. _Can't even do this well—_

A sharp look from Nikolai has the brunette helping up the other girl and wordlessly hurrying out of the room. The door closes silently and it's just them, stark naked, Kirill breathing as heavily as though he's just ran a race.

_Calm down._ Nikolai is still grasping Kirill's wrist; he begins slow, steady motions with his thumb across the pulse-point.

_Stupid fucking_ — Gradually, incrementally, Kirill's breathing slows. A tremor passes through him. _I'll kill that Uzbek pig. He was supposed to send us his best._

_I'll kill him myself,_ Nikolai says. The bed shifts as he moves closer, mattress dipping under his weight. He reaches up and traces the route from Kirill's temple to behind his ear, the hinge of his jaw, down to the nape of his neck. Fingers tangling in the soft hair, familiar.

Kirill's breath hitches. He looks at Nikolai with a mixture of anger, confusion and – yes – lust. _Kolya—_

_Shh._ They're touching now, skin against skin at the thighs, hipbones, shoulders. Kirill is swaying, a little unsteady, the alcohol heavy on his breath. Their faces are inches apart. _Don't think so much._

_Fuck it_ , Kirill mutters, but it's without rancour. He is significantly quieter now, a defused bomb. Their proximity doesn't bother him; on the contrary, he leans in more, letting Nikolai support his weight. _You can't fucking trust anyone anymore._

Nikolai looks at him and says, _You can trust me._

Instead of answering, Kirill leans in and kisses him.

It's mostly off-centre, sloppy and unplanned – more the vodka than anything. The moment stretches out, frozen in time – just long enough for Kirill to make an angry, humiliated noise and draw away – before Nikolai chooses to respond. He opens his mouth, deepening the kiss, and Kirill doesn't think twice; leaning in hungrily, clumsy with eagerness, hands unsteadily framing Nikolai's jaw.

When they break apart Kirill is panting, this time with arousal, and his eyes hold a thousand questions. _Kolya—_

Nikolai locks their foreheads together, lips barely touching. _I said, don't think so much._

The second kiss is much longer.

The first stirrings of arousal on Kirill's part are quick to come. He buries his face in the crook of Nikolai's neck, panting, and when their hips grind together he makes a helpless sound. Nikolai doesn't have to see his face to know what is written there. For him, Kirill was always an open book.

Wordlessly, he reaches down to touch, and Kirill's breath hitches. It's short and messy, just a few strokes, and then Kirill is crying out raggedly, clutching at Nikolai's shoulders with his palms digging into ink-blue stars. He stays like this even when Nikolai lets go, holding on, as though unwilling to look back up.

Nikolai picks his words carefully, because to err now would be worse than any number of other mistakes. _Kirill._ No response. He tries again. _Brother._

After a long moment, Kirill finally looks up and meets his gaze.

_You can trust me,_ Nikolai repeats simply, because all everything else is redundant.

_Brother,_ Kirill echoes, almost inaudible.

_Yes,_ Nikolai says. From that point on, it's easy. He presses their bodies together, lets Kirill slide a hand down his chest and stomach, fingers mapping out cupolas and crosses and swirling ink letters. Lets Kirill leave stinging bite marks on his throat. Even lets his arousal, temporarily banked, flare again.

The way Kirill looks at him, after, is worth everything.

 

*

 

It takes him a week to file another status report, especially since Kirill spends a lot more time in his immediate vicinity now. There is even less privacy amongst them, but Nikolai eventually manages. The note he sends is sparsely worded, but he trusts the bureau will read between the lines.

(They didn't ask it of him, but they didn't have to. He recognises the easiest way to take over Semyon's empire, and he will do whatever it takes. One step at a time.)

Nikolai takes another drag from his cigarette, exhales. Taps out the ash. Soon, he will meet with Kirill, and they will go check up on the flower-shop owner. To assert their presence. It was Nikolai's idea.

_It is good for business, to remind everyone who's boss_ , he'd said, and Kirill had immediately nodded assent.

_Fear is the best ruler, Kolya,_ he'd said, with the air of someone imparting worldly wisdom.

_Oh, I don't know,_ Nikolai had said. _Sometimes gentle is better._

**Author's Note:**

> This story started off in an attempt to heed the original prompt, but alas, somewhere along the way shook its horns and mulishly decided to set another course. There was nothing I could do but follow. I hope it's enjoyable nevertheless.
> 
> Endless thanks to AlterEgon and ScratchyWilson for the incredible, speed-of-light betas. The world is better thanks to kind people like them.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, folks!


End file.
